


It's Cold Outside

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, winter woes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:47:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Romance Nations are melodramatic pains in the ass when they’re cold.





	It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr (winter 2016).

France sniffs. It’s a loud sniff, almost managing to sound like an unintentional sniffle, but it’s the seventh sniff in half as many minutes, each one more melodramatic and pointed than the last.

After the third sniff, Scotland had given up on offering his guest a tissue. Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek and waits for the sniff to come to its perfectly planned end, before asking: “Should I put the fire on?”

Busy huddling up in two of Scotland’s least threadbare blankets on Scotland’s sofa, his floaty hair mussed up by static and his hands cradling his fourth cup of hot tea like it is baby Jesus reborn, France _ looks _ at him. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

Scotland puts the fire on. The heating is _ already _ on, and the kettle and teapot still hot to touch, but France still shivers under all his layers like a man with fever.

“I feel like I shall _ never _ be warm again,” he moans when Scotland rejoins him on the sofa, pressing himself in close to Scotland’s side when Scotland curls an arm around him and resting his head on Scotland’s shoulder. His hair tickles where it slips over Scotland’s collarbone.

Normally, Scotland would have very little to complain about France draping himself all over him, but right now France’s shudders keep jolting against Scotland’s ribs, and the Frenchman is dangerously close to upsetting his tea over _ both _ their laps. “You ken this is supposed to be one of our mildest winters yet?”

France just hikes up his blankets further, cocooning himself and Scotland in tartan and fluff.

Scotland feels warm. And smothered.

“I was too beautiful for this world,” France groans, somewhere under one of the blankets. And then sniffs _ again - _ this time possibly genuinely.

“And yet you’ve still got to suffer it with the rest of us,” says Scotland, lifting said blanket so he can actually see France’s face again. If the beautiful ponce is determined to die wailing in his arms, the least he can do is let Scotland _ see _ it to commit it to memory. “Are ye gonna drink that tea, or just continue to cuddle it like a newborn?”

France frowns at him - an expression that hardly shakes the heavens when his cheeks are blotchy and his nose is going red. “_Écosse, _ you are _ horribly _ unsympathetic.”

“Probably,” Scotland agrees. It’s a charge that has been levelled at him on numerous occasions in the past, and he’s liable to have it levelled at him again in the future. “But it’s fine right now, isn’t it, as long as I’m _ warm?_”

France thumps him in the ribs with a closed fist, trying for high and mighty with his stolen blankets slipping off his shoulders like a prince’s cloak. Firelight on his blond hair gilds him half a crown. “You are _ not,_” he says snootily, “even doing a very good job at _ that._”

“I could get up and leave you sitting here alone,” Scotland suggests.

He gets thumped again for that - but France lies down again, and there’s a quiet _ slurp _ as he begins to drink his tea.


End file.
